


Fool's Gold

by esteefee



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-24
Updated: 2008-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 23:31:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Re-post. Apparently this was missing from the collection. Thanks, mecurtin! </p><p>  <i>"We shouldn't be doing this," Rodney moaned, and then kissed him again and said, "This is idiotic; we're crazy. They'll kill you. They'll ship you away."</i></p><p>  <i>Then he fucked John stupid.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fool's Gold

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Started this as a story for the [sga_flashfic](http://sga_flashfic.livejournal.com) vacation challenge, but then the vacation spot turned into a prospective burial site. Er.

On P3X-729 they found a beach of black and gold. Not real gold—it was iron pyrite ground by the waves into sand along with the black igneous rock of the shore. But with the flakes of gold sparkling in the water, it was unholy beautiful. Really, the most beautiful beach John had ever seen.  
  
He wished he could surf it, but there were sharks, or what stood for sharks. Gigantic gray-backed creatures that leaped up from the water with small furry things clenched in their white, jagged teeth, while the shimmering waves pounded the black and gold sand.  
  
John told Rodney to make note of the address.  
  
"You're thinking a vacation spot for the team?" Rodney asked.  
  
"Nope," John said. "I want to be buried here. I mean, a Viking burial-at-sea thing—put me on a surfboard and push me out into the waves."  
  
"Oh, that's just great. Assuming you haven't been blasted into atoms or sucked dry by space vampires, you want your pitiful corpse to be consumed by four-eyed sharks? Anyway," Rodney stooped and dug at something in the sand, "what happens if, God forbid, I should die first?"  
  
John couldn't say it was impossible, so he also couldn't say he damned well planned to be dead before letting anything happen to Rodney.  
  
"Let's hope for a double funeral," John said instead with a shrug. "We'll have Teyla do the honors."  
  
"Oh, happy day," Rodney said.  
  
:::  
  
Rodney's room, and by extension his bed, smelled faintly of Kraft Cheese 'n' Crackers. It could be because Rodney hoarded the little packets everytime the _Daedalus_ brought in a shipment. He had a drawerful of the little red spreading sticks that he saved in case he could use them for something.  
  
John didn't mind. There were lots of strange things about Rodney that didn't bother him at all, even if they made other people nuts. The one thing he couldn't stand, though, was when Rodney pretended to be more of a coward than he was.  
  
"We shouldn't be doing this," Rodney moaned, and then kissed him again and said, "This is idiotic; we're crazy. They'll kill you. They'll ship you away."  
  
Then he fucked John stupid.  
  
The idiotic discussion started up again the second John finished coming—harder than his own personal best of orgasms—and Rodney said breathlessly, "You realize we can't do this ever again. I mean _ever._ "  
  
"Rodney—" John blinked the sweat out of his eyes.  
  
"Because, hello? This is your life we're talking about, not to mention your pathetic career."  
  
"Shouldn't I be the one worrying about that? I mean it's my fucking pathetic career, Rodney."  
  
"Yes, but you're an idiot. You can't be trusted to look out for your own interests. Do I need to remind you about a certain suicide mission with an armed nuclear device?"  
  
"Fuck you, McKay." John wasn't going to argue. He wasn't going to beg, not for anyone. But he tried again anyway, just a little.  
  
"Look—no one would find out. We'll jimmy the security cams. We'll be careful."  
  
Rodney was already getting dressed. "Atlantis is a small town, Sheppard, filled with pretty smart people. Sure, none of them are as brilliant as I am, but there's no _way_ no one would catch us. It's not worth your career just to have some, I admit, extremely athletic sex—"  
  
"Athletic."  
  
"Yes. Congratulations—you're very bendy."  
  
If Rodney had been able to meet his eyes at all, John would have fallen for his bullshit.  
  
But he still couldn't say what he wanted, which was, _Please. Please, Rodney, don't do this.  
_  
:::  
  
So, except for that one time, they didn't fuck again. Nothing changed, except now when John jerked off he had some real-life images to use—the muscles of Rodney's shoulders straining, blue eyes half-closed with pleasure, and the way his chest flushed all the way to his pink nipples when he came.  
  
John didn't push it, though, and he didn't let it affect the way he treated McKay during their missions. People would have noticed. And if there was one thing John was good at, it was flying under the radar when he needed to, even if Rodney had been the one to start it, jumping him over a viewing of _The Princess Bride_ , for God's sake. Cary Elwes wasn't _that_ hot, even if he was a blond.  
  
But John was cool with it. And if he no longer saved back the MREs he knew were Rodney's favorites, or slipped him the occasional porn he'd confiscated from his marines who were supposed to be on watch, no one would notice.  
  
Except maybe Rodney, which was the point.  
  
:::  
  
Amanda Tyson, the new head of Marine Biology, was brunette, perky, and had a slightly uneven tooth that stuck out a little in front. When John saw her request for a jumper team to collect deep ocean samples, he decided to be a nice guy and take her party out himself instead of shunting it off on Briggs.  
  
Rodney probably wouldn't have found out about it, but he'd come by to ask John for his magical ATA touch on some cranky piece of Ancient tech just as John was gearing up.  
  
"Oh, I don't _believe_ you."  
  
"What's to believe? The biology team needs to gather data. This is a _scientific_ expedition, you know."  
  
"If you can call the soft sciences that." Rodney's mouth twisted a little. "And I suppose this has nothing to do with the fact what's-her-name, that cutesy marine biologist, is going."  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"It's disgusting!" McKay waved his hands. "She looks just like you! Her hair looks like it's been through a weedwacker, and I think her hips are defective from the way she keeps slouching against things. You guys could be brother and sister."  
  
"I never had a sister." John zipped up his vest and patted his pockets. "Pass me that re-breather, would you?"  
  
Rodney grabbed it and handed it to John without halting his rant. "Don't you think that's just a little bit narcissistic? Making a play for Atlantis' female mini-you?"  
  
John felt himself smirk, and turned away to grab his 9mil. He checked the clip, re-seated it, and then double-checked the safety.  
  
When he turned around, Rodney was staring at him.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing. Just—nothing." Rodney waved his hand, and John left, still smirking.  
  
:::  
  
Funny thing was, Amanda turned out to be pretty cool. She liked all the same stuff John did—the ocean (she preferred windsurfing, though), and going fast in the puddlejumper, and Johnny Cash. She wasn't a vegetarian, but refused to eat fish because she said it made her feel guilty when she had to work with them all the time. She'd once gone swimming with a great white shark, minus the diving cage. She hand-fed it off the bow, first, _"So I knew he wouldn't be hungry_."  
  
The science dive went smoothly, with the remote sampling device Amanda had built working just as advertised. No whales or sea monsters appeared, but they did see some extremely bizarre jellyfish.  
  
It was cool. She was cool. John still ate with the team most mornings and at dinnertime, but he and Manda started having lunch regularly, and then finally John asked her out to movie night.  
  
It was possible Rodney had done something sick and stalkerish for intel, because he showed up at John's quarters just as he was getting ready, and he obviously knew about the date.  
  
"You realize you're a laughingstock," Rodney said as he blustered in. "Everyone says it must be like dating a mirror. You even have the same stupid laugh."  
  
John tugged his shirt down and ran his fingers up through his hair before leaning back against his dresser and crossing his arms.  
  
"You want a say in my love-life, McKay? All you have to do is give the word."  
  
Rodney jerked to a stop and his face creased in an unhappy frown. It looked a lot like the expression he'd had as he came inside John that time. Maybe John should have realized right then their situation was screwed.  
  
"I'm not saying you shouldn't _date_ , Sheppard. Just—you might have the decency to—" Rodney stopped talking and turned red.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You know."  
  
"No, I don't, because you haven't told me. So speak up or shut up."  
  
John felt a little mean at the hurt look Rodney gave him. "You're making an ultimatum, is that it?"  
  
"No."  
  
"So, what are you saying, Colonel?"  
  
Maybe it was the emphasis on _Colonel_ that did it. "I'm saying I like her. I'm saying—I'm saying I deserve this."  
  
"Deserve—?"  
  
"Yeah. I deserve to like someone _else_ , someone who doesn't fuck me and then blow me off."  
  
Rodney's face had gone from pink to red. The only problem was John couldn't tell if he was jealous, or just embarrassed at the language since he was Canadian and didn't use words like that.  
  
John didn't get a chance to find out, though, because Rodney just stalked off without saying anything at all.  
  
:::  
  
Manda was every bit as flexible as John in bed. They tried some stuff he hadn't seen even in the really good porn. It was pretty fun.  
  
:::  
  
The next day, he took her to the black-gold beach. Her eyes were wide as she stared at the sharks—his excuse for bringing her there. She took loads of video footage, and looked seriously alarmed when he suggested there might be a way of extending a jumper shield to keep the sharks out so they could try surfing.  
  
He wondered if maybe things wouldn't work out between them after all.  
  
:::  
  
On M7G-427, John got shot by something that felt a heck of a lot like a tazer, except without the wires. The little metal bits embedded themselves in his skin, and his entire body went into an arc of pure, shocking pain. He went down so hard he hit the ground head first, and then banged his skull a couple more times for good measure during the convulsions.  
  
Still, he was conscious enough to chatter out, "D-don't t-touch me!" when Rodney reached for him with his bare hands.  
  
Ronon and Teyla were busy shooting at the guys in the ugly purple uniforms. Rodney pulled a pair of rubber gloves out of nowhere, but before he could yank the tazer spikes out, they went into another cycle and John's brain melted.  
  
When he came to in the infirmary, Manda was there, her small face squinched into a frown.  
  
"You're awake? Dr. Beckett, John is awake!"  
  
Carson's terminally worried face appeared. "Colonel Sheppard, let's have a look at you, shall we?" He held up his hand. "Can you follow my finger?"  
  
_Which one?_ John wanted to say, but there was something wrong with his vocal chords, and all that came out of his mouth was a squeaking noise.  
  
Carson got more worried and ran some tests. John was having trouble keeping up, trying to nod and shake his head at the right times. What he really wanted to do was ask how his team was, and tried to look around Manda to find them.  
  
Maybe Carson saw him looking, because he said, "Ronon and Teyla are talking to Dr. Weir. They said they'd be right back soon as you awoke. Are you in pain, Colonel?"  
  
That was a big _yes_. Every fucking muscle in John's body felt like it had been stretched to breaking, and his bones felt achy and loose. But if he told Beckett that, he'd drug John up in no time at all and it would be lights out again before he'd get to see all his visitors.  
  
Where the fuck was Rodney, anyway?  
  
"You have to stop making a habit of this, Colonel," Carson said. "But at least your heart didn't stop this time." Carson's jokes were always terrible, but John stretched his lips into a smile.  
  
"This time?" Manda squeaked, frowning more deeply. With a serious effort, John lifted his hand and patted hers awkwardly.  
  
Just then Teyla walked in with Ronon right behind her. She made happy noises at seeing John awake, and put one small hand on the side of his bed. She never touched him when he was hurt, something John was grateful for. It seemed like everyone liked taking liberties in the infirmary.  
  
"Dr. Weir will be down shortly, Colonel. Is there anything we can get you?"  
  
John gave Beckett a pleading look, and Beckett explained to them about the frozen vocal chords. For some reason Ronon found that amusing, because he belted out a bark of a laugh and tapped John on the shin with one paw.  
  
"Maybe we should use those electric things on McKay," Ronon said.  
  
John grinned at him, even though—where the fuck was McKay, anyway? Wounded team member, here. Unspoken rules of membership and all that—it was Rodney's duty to be here and make stupid jokes and offer to play card games. The custom was practically written in _stone_.  
  
John looked around quickly, but of course Rodney wasn't there—he would have heard him coming a mile away.  
  
Teyla pulled up a chair next to Manda, who had pulled away and was watching him strangely. John tried to smile at her, but she looked away.  
  
"I should let you have your visit," she said awkwardly. "Feel better, John."  
  
John didn't know what was going on there, but he was in too much goddamned pain to try to figure it out, and anyway he couldn't talk to ask her. But the look she gave him as she left was a pretty clear _goodbye_ , not a _see you later._  
  
"She was very concerned about you," Teyla said uncertainly, drawing John's eyes back over. "I think—if you'll forgive me for saying it—I'm not certain she realized how dangerous our work is."  
  
John was spared having to answer because of his complete inability to make a sound beyond a squeak, so he shrugged.  
  
He wished he could ask where Rodney was, though.  
  
:::  
  
Rodney didn't show during the hand of _Eight Men_ that Ronon forced him into. It was a Satedan card game that had the advantage of not requiring a lot of talking. John just used one finger for a challenge and two for a hit. Later, Teyla brought him some hot soup, but it hurt his throat too much. Eating hurt too much. Hell, breathing hurt too much, and after only a little while John motioned them away so he could get some sleep. But first he scribbled a quick note asking Teyla to bring him his laptop from his office.  
  
After John woke up from his nap, Carson forced a painkiller on him, which helped a lot, really. Then John opened his laptop and sent an email. It went like this:  
  
` To: rodney@myowndamneddomain.net  
From: j_sheppard@atlantis.ioa.gov  
Subject: Where the fuck are you?  
  
McKay: Injured guy here, remember? You owe me a game of chess.  
Also, my vocal chords are frozen which means I can't even flirt with the nurses.  
  
—js  
`  
  
Rodney's reply was less than nice:  
  
` To: j_sheppard@atlantis.ioa.gov  
From: rodney@myowndamneddomain.net  
Subject: Re: Where the fuck are you?  
  
Bite me, Sheppard. I have a very large workload and very little time for big goddamned heroes who insist on jumping in front of every little projectile they encounter.  
  
Yrs most sincerely,  
  
Rodney  
  
ps: Are you really okay?`  
  
`To: rodney@myowndamneddomain.net  
From: j_sheppard@atlantis.ioa.gov  
Subject: Re: Where the fuck are you? and I'm still waiting  
  
I'm fine. I'm just bored. And it was your stupid fault I had to push you out of the way and now I need that cute new nurse to hold my dick when I pee. So get your big brain down here and amuse me.  
  
—js  
  
ps: I think my girlfriend just broke up with me.`  
  
` To: "Captain Kirk" <j_sheppard@atlantis.ioa.gov>  
From: rodney@myowndamneddomain.net  
Subject: In which I very much don't give a damn  
  
I can't believe you don't know how to hold your own dick. For this your government spent millions of dollars on your training?  
  
Yrs, etc.,  
Rodney McKay, Ph.D., Ph.D.  
  
ps: Good riddance to bad rubbish.  
  
To: "The World's Worst Friend"  <rodney@myowndamneddomain.net>  
From: j_sheppard@atlantis.ioa.gov  
Subject: Screw you, asshole.  
  
Never mind. Christa just brought me pudding.  
  
—js`  
  
  
  
The funny thing was, John really couldn't hold his own dick without his hands shaking, and each email he wrote took about a million backspaces and retypings. But at least it kept him busy for a couple of hours.  
  
After that he took another nap, waking up to a huge cramp in his left thigh that had him whistling a scream until he was awake enough to stop the hideous noise. It did manage to alert Beckett, though, who rushed over with an injection of muscle relaxants that turned John's whole body into Silly Putty in under fifty seconds.  
  
He made his shaky way to the bathroom after that, with Ronon clamped onto his left arm. Totally humiliating. For some reason it made John even more pissed off at Rodney for not being there. Rodney would have bitched about having to help him, but at least it would have been less embarrassing, since Rodney, when he was injured, was an even bigger baby than John was.  
  
John was feeling a lot better the next day, though, so Carson sent him to his quarters with more muscle relaxants in pill form and strict orders not to do anything at all for at least three days.  
  
John hated having time off, but he didn't have much choice, so he ended up reorganizing his files. All his documents tended to end up as a big pile of turds on his desktop, so periodically he went through and sorted things into their separate folders and an ever-expanding directory named "stuff."  
  
Just as he was finishing, Manda stopped by to break up with him. She needed something more stable, she said, what with already living in a different galaxy than she was used to.  
  
John figured she'd lied about liking to go fast, after all. He wondered a little if she wasn't taking advantage of his broken vocal chords to get it over with easily. He didn't mind—he wouldn't have known what to say, anyway.  
  
After she left, looking sad and guilty and relieved, he put some Johnny on the stereo and just vegged out, napping occasionally and dreaming he was inside the songs. He was riding the train in "Hey, Porter" when his door blipped—someone was trying the lock.  
  
John opened his mouth but he was still in mouse mode. So he just rolled onto his back and waited for whomever it was to go away. His muscles hurt much less—not so much like they were all locked up anymore, but more like they were creaking on hinges.  
  
"I know you're in there, Colonel. I can hear that stupid music of yours."  
  
Fucking Rodney McKay. John hadn't checked his email that day, so for all he knew Rodney had warned him he was stopping by.  
  
There was the sound of the side-panel being scraped off, and John sighed to himself while he listened to Rodney hot-wiring the door.  
  
"There you are," Rodney said as it opened. "And thank you very much for not letting me in."  
  
John rolled to sit up with a wince, his stomach muscles complaining. He waved a little feebly at the door, silently inviting it to slide shut and catch Rodney on the ass on his way out. When that didn't happen, John just dropped back down on the bed and waited.  
  
"You really can't talk?"  
  
John shook his head against the pillow.  
  
"Good. Then you can't complain when I do this."  
  
All of a sudden Rodney was there, kneeling onto the bed. John froze, and then raised himself up on his elbows and shook his head.  
  
"Sorry, I don't speak sign language," Rodney said, his eyes bright and horny-looking. John was knocked flat a second later when Rodney landed on him. John pressed his lips closed a second before Rodney kissed him, but it was no use. Rodney's lips were too damned soft, and his mouth too damned interesting. That stupid, twisty mouth of his, and his clever, clever tongue pushing in. John really had no options at all, being half-crippled and unable to speak and having Rodney's hot mouth melting his spine.  
  
Once John had given in and started kissing back as best he could, Rodney pulled away to give a triumphant chuckle.  
  
"So, she broke up with you, did she?"  
  
John frowned.  
  
"What? This is me being relieved, okay? I hated her, Sheppard. She annoyed the hell out of me, and I'm sure you thought she was perfect, but she wasn't, even with her perfect, you know"—Rodney pantomimed what was maybe a pair of hips, or possibly a ZPM—"and the way she just touched you all the time like she deserved it. But she didn't. Not like me."  
  
John raised his eyebrows.  
  
"Hell, yes, I deserve it for saving _your_ perfect ass at least thirty-two times, last count."  
  
John pursed his lips in annoyance.  
  
Rodney kissed them.  
  
John twisted his head away.  
  
"I know I'm a jerk, okay?" Rodney said earnestly. "That's my job: being a jerk. If they gave out an award I would win it along with every academic prize in two galaxies. So, maybe it took seeing you give it away to a useless—a useless _soft_ scientist—to make me realize I can't let you do that. Even geniuses can be a little bit stupid. Just occasionally."  
  
John rolled his eyes, and Rodney's face twisted up. "Look, we'll figure something out. We'll re-wire the cams like you said, we'll—I just couldn't, Sheppard. I just can't watch you—I don't _care_."  
  
Then Rodney kissed him again, and this time John let him, because really he was tired of resisting. Literally—all his muscles were just turning to mush, probably thanks to the stupid muscle relaxants and having nothing at all to do with Rodney's teasing tongue and pushy, pushy mouth.  
  
That's probably also why he didn't resist when Rodney got up on his knees and started stripping off John's T-shirt and sweatpants. It wasn't because his dick was rock hard at that point and making the front of his boxers all wet.  
  
He let Rodney get naked, too, because it was only fair, and because he liked the way Rodney's pink skin and tiny nipples felt pressed up against his. The perfect thing for sore muscles, really, having Rodney draped over him like a blanket.  
  
John ducked his chin when Rodney's lips brushed against his neck; John didn't like being kissed there. No one ever got that he didn't _like_ having his neck gnawed on. Actually, there were damned few places he really enjoyed being kissed. But Rodney stopped trying and brushed his fingers along John's hip and groin—close to his cock, but without taking hold of him.  
  
John waited. He made the huge effort of raising his hips, offering his cock. He tried to rub it against the soft, warm skin of Rodney's belly, but Rodney tilted away.  
  
So, John finally, _finally_ took Rodney's hand and closed it around his cock, showing him how he liked it—tight and hard, squeezing more at the base and pulling up. It was like torture, like the best kind of pain, to have Rodney handling him so roughly, and John let go and trusted himself to Rodney's strong fingers.  
  
Rodney stroked him, panting a little. John got closer to the edge again and again, but Rodney always slowed it down, taking a detour down to roll John's balls in his fingers, all the while kissing the corner of his mouth, dipping his tongue in but darting it away again when John tried to suck. It was fucked up, but John didn't know what he could do about it, because he was out of his head at this point from wanting so badly for Rodney to bring him off.  
  
"Why don't you ask for it," Rodney said, his voice low. "You can at least try."  
  
John couldn't. He sounded like a damned fool when he tried to talk. He didn't know how Rodney knew, the bastard. But John wouldn't ask for it, not ever. He wouldn't even force Rodney's grip to be tighter, force his hand to move faster. John lay still, trembling with need until the trembling turned into shakes, until the need turned into a very real pain, and his breathing went short and a little panicked, and finally Rodney sighed and tightened his hand. He started to bend toward John's waist as if to suck him off, but no way—John gripped his shoulder and didn't let him go down.  
  
His fingers on Rodney's arm turned to steel when finally Rodney brought him right to the edge, then shoved him over roughly so it felt like his nuts were imploding, the peak coming up too hard, too fast. John choked on his own spit trying not to yell at the pure feeling of it, like the tazer had been just before the full charge went off, tingling through him in a serious warning. Then his back twisted tight and he shot his spunk all over Rodney's hand, all over his own chest—even a splash under his chin.  
  
"Sheppard," Rodney groaned a little while later. It had been at least a few minutes, John knew, because he was almost done shaking. Rodney was pushing his cock urgently into the soft mess at John's groin. John shifted up a little and trapped Rodney's cock under his balls, then closed his legs tightly.  
  
"God." Rodney started thrusting his slick cock into the small space John had made, the head squeezing between John's butt cheeks every couple of thrusts, reminding him of that first time when Rodney fucked him, not knowing John had never done that before, had never even _wanted_ to. But now he wished Rodney could wait and fuck him for real again. Maybe this time it would make a difference.  
  
But Rodney didn't last long. He pushed and pushed and pushed, then his whole body shuddered under John's palms and his cock pumped out his come between John's legs.  
  
"Oh. Oh, man," Rodney wailed softly. It wasn't John's name, but then Rodney hardly ever called him by his name. Mostly always it was _Colonel_ with just a hint of sarcasm, as if he held everything John was and did in the slightest bit of friendly contempt.  
  
Rodney gave a snuffle against his shoulder and then rolled to the side. John was covered in come—no longer lukewarm and sexy, but cold and jelly-like and disgusting. He got out of bed, every stupid muscle still aching and useless, and took a hot shower. He could hear Rodney's laptop running—watching _The Princess Bride_ again, it sounded like. John was a little surprised. He'd really thought Rodney would take the opportunity to ditch him.  
  
But he was still there when John got out of the bathroom, damp towel around his waist, his hair still dripping down his neck.  
  
Rodney looked up. "How's your—" he waved awkwardly at John's body, "—muscle thing?"  
  
John shrugged. Rodney had pulled back the covers and was sitting up against the headboard, which meant he wasn't going anywhere, which meant John was twice as confused as he'd been when Rodney jumped him.  
  
John yanked off his towel and used it on his hair. Rodney's eyes dipped before darting away, looking weirdly shy. Tossing him the towel, John turned and took a pair of clean boxers from his dresser. He pulled them on and turned back to see Rodney wiping himself down, swiping it over his soft, pink cock.  
  
Taking a deep breath, John whispered, "You staying?" his voice only a thread of sound.  
  
Rodney eyes widened. "Yes. I mean—you want me to?"  
  
John nodded. "Yeah," he said, just in case. Just in case Rodney needed to hear it.  
  
Then John crawled into bed next to Rodney, who pulled him close and slotted him in tight, face to face, his hand warm at the center of John's back.  
  
"You have a couple of days off, right? Enforced vacation?"  
  
John nodded.  
  
"You have to take me back to P3X-729. I can't _believe_ you brought her there, Sheppard." Rodney banged him on the back, and John let out a squeaky yelp.  
  
"Yeah," he said, "But I let _you_ fuck me," and then held his breath because he heard the bare truth in his own whisper—that he'd given Rodney something he'd given to no one else.  
  
Rodney's snort sounded appeased, and for a second John thought he'd missed it, but then Rodney pulled his head back. "Wait. Wait just a second."  
  
John focused hard on Rodney's left shoulder. Bastard was too fucking smart.  
  
"You mean you never—? You can't be serious."  
  
Sighing, John closed his eyes and waited for it.  
  
"You're telling me you were a _virgin_?"  
  
"Jesus Christ." If John's arms weren't total spaghetti, he would have pushed Rodney right out of bed and hopefully cracked his skull open.  
  
"No, sorry—I'm—you—I'm amazed, and grateful, that's all."  
  
John pulled back and squirmed himself over onto his other side so he wouldn't have to look into Rodney's wide eyes.  
  
But, "Wow," was all Rodney said, "Wow, John," and he pulled John in tighter, until there was hardly any skin not touching between them. And then he kissed John on the neck.  
  
Weird, but for once it didn't bother John at all.  
  
  
  
_End._


End file.
